


Something Special

by Djtmusings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baby (Supernatural) - Freeform, Castiel's Overcoat and Tie, Demon Deals, Gen, Impala backstory, Impala has a soul, Oliver & Fitch, Ruby's Demon-killing Knife, Sam's Taurus, The Colt (Supernatural), The Samulet - Freeform, Trope - The Little Shop that wasn't there Yesterday, What would you trade for something special?, Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe, blood of the righteous man, dean's colt, object backstories, pheonix ash, tears of grief from the Boy King of Hell, the Impala (Supernatural), three hairs from a true vessel of the lord, unborn souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 13:59:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11556648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djtmusings/pseuds/Djtmusings
Summary: What makes something special? Special enough for people to pay any price, beyond even their lives? Welcome to Lost and Found, Ltd., experts in finding very, very special things. Things that can be yours if you are willing to trade something very special in return. Well, and often even if you aren’t.[Canon-compliant possible backstory for both characters and objects in Supernatural: Dean, Sam, Bobby, Ruby, Jimmy Novak, Daniel Elkins, the Impala, Ruby's knife, Dean's Colt, Sam's Taurus, the Samulet and The Colt.]





	Something Special

**Author's Note:**

> This story exists because I wanted answers about several iconic SPN objects. Inspired by @elizabethrobertajones' Great Meta Scavenger Hunt challenge #7 “[The 2nd most important thing in the SPN universe](https://elizabethrobertajones.tumblr.com/post/156886981553/the-great-meta-scavenger-hunt-round-7-the-most)” and my love of the Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe/Magic Shop short story trope (genre?). And, well, my love of Baby.
> 
> Thanks to the @spncanonbigbang folks for challenging me to write and publish my first serious fanfic work. Really - you guys rock.
> 
> Thanks to [@busysquirrel ](https://busysquirrel-art.tumblr.com/)for her wonderful Artwork - I can't tell you how thrilled I am to have an image of "the shop" and Mr. Fitch! (Miscellaneous lame text-based artwork by me.)
> 
> Thanks also to my exemplary beta readers:  
> Content: [@chiisana-sukima](https://chiisana-sukima.tumblr.com/) & SCA Associate: Miklos  
> Grammar & Flow: co-worker and family friend: MRagsdale

**Sometime - Somewhere...**

_What makes something special? Really special…across time and vast distance and even dimensions unbound. Special enough for people to pay any price, beyond even their lives. Is it possible for almost any item in existence to be that special to someone, somewhere, sometime?_

The self-assured and compact little man shook his head and returned to his accounting ledgers. _Daydreaming_. His brother wouldn’t let him hear the last of it if he caught him daydreaming _again_. Yet he couldn’t help himself. He found these questions _fascinating_ and had dedicated his existence to examining the infinite possible answers. Well, really, they both had – he and his sibling. Connecting people to the special things they needed, exchanging the unique and precious between customers – it all began as a way of conducting research, but then it simply became…what they _did_. And because of what they did for their customers, they came to know things…things that protected them from harm, from theft, and from red ink in the ledger. Beyond protection, these things also provided power. An awful lot of power…if they chose to use it. He smiled softly to himself. It might be said that they – he and his brother – were pretty _special_ themselves.

 

*********************************

**January 25, 2004 - Alice Acres, Texas**

He regained consciousness slowly and reluctantly, his body like lead and his back teeth echoing each throb of his aching head. Purely by reflex, his hand groped for and found the solid reassurance of a gun. Baseline safety sorted, his brain automatically kicked into situational assessment: Why did he hurt? Drugged, fight, or…self-inflicted? _Ahhhh, crap, self-inflicted, dammit_. Keeping his eyes firmly closed, he moved with the careful deliberateness taught to all true disciples of Bacchus, flipping slowly onto his back in a wide-armed sprawl across the width of the mattress. Achingly bright light combined with the scent of stale tobacco, mold, and cheap cleaning products to set his stomach churning. Ignoring his body’s complaints through force of habit, he sluggishly began to work through the previous night’s memories. He remembered the bar… _bars_ …he corrected himself. He had been celebrating… _what?_ His brain slowly dredged up a response. Right, his birthday. Alone. _Twenty-five years old and I’m stuck celebrating with goddamned strangers._ No surprise he felt this crappy. Did he remain alone? No happy fun time memories came immediately to mind. His brain made note of his solitary bed state and the lack of noise from the seedy motel bathroom. Made a few mental calculations. _Thank god, no one slept over._ Didn’t mean no one came home with him, just that his hungover morning had fewer people. _Less complicated, good._

He pondered his alone state for a moment and acknowledged the anxious knot low in his gut that greeted him each morning. Cautiously opening his eyes, he turned to face the empty bed on his left. No dad. _Dad was hunting down a demon lead in Ohio_ , his brain grudgingly supplied. He had checked in fine by phone late yesterday afternoon. _No Sam_. Pictures of Sam at Stanford flickered briefly through his head. He was pretty damn sure Sam had no idea how often Dean secretly checked in on him, but he simply _had_ to know that his brother was OK. Last time was two months ago. _Time for another visit soon._

Family inventory taken, Dean returned to poking at his memories of the previous night. He remembered the beginning of the evening…the first two bars, beers, shots, dancing with pretty girls…a slow smile crawled over his face. Even while partying, he had been working. He’d hustled darts in the first bar and pool in the second. Made a very tidy wad of cash, which he took to the third bar and… _and_ …

 _Shit._ Dean drew a blank. He didn’t remember what happened at the third bar. He remembered driving there and opening the door, greeting the bartender (bad teeth, scary muscular dude, no luck there) and then…nothing. He didn’t remember leaving the bar, coming back to the hotel…nothing. Galvanized, he sat up sharply and then clutched his head. _Fucking hell._ Swung his legs off the bed and staggered over to the window to squint painfully out the curtains. _Baby._  He signed gustily in relief. Not the best park job, but clearly he’d been just sober enough to get her home. He glanced down… _and to get undressed before passing out_. A bit of fear churned his stomach. Blackouts were bad, dangerous. His dad would be furious if he knew. Dean grabbed at the pile of cloth on the floor as he collapsed into a chair and began methodically checking his pockets for anything missing. _Good._ Everything checked out fine – even had most of the money he’d hustled. _Can’t have gotten too damn exciting at the last bar, I guess._ Dean made his way over to his duffle over by the TV – a cursory check showed everything in its place. He’d take a thorough inventory before leaving, like always.

Second panic of the morning averted, his body began to make its demands known. Piss, shower, teeth…food? His stomach lurched yet again. _Coffee_. Dean made his way to the bathroom even more slowly, the pounding in his head amped by his adrenaline-fueled searches. By the end of the shower, however, Dean was relieved to find more and more images of the third bar returning. Several more drinks (no surprise), more dancing, and… _oh, god, I think singing. Crap._ Dean brushed the alcohol slime off his teeth and tongue, wisely skipped a shave, and headed to the nearby Shoney’s for coffee. By the end of the second cup, he was pretty sure he had most of the night reconstructed, even a few flashes of driving home. There was one set of images, however, that he could not quite reconcile.

A small older man, sitting across a damp bar table. Intense dark eyes behind glasses on a wrinkled face that was…plain? Ordinary? Bland?  Dressed in an oddly cut vest and jacket. Dark wispy hair streaked with silver, combed over a good-sized bald patch. The man was talking…saying something earnestly, but damn if Dean could remember what. Slid a business card across the table. Dean remembered it between his fingers, remembered agreeing to _something_ … A worried frown on his face, Dean searched through his pockets, eventually finding an unfamiliar card in his inside jacket pocket.

 

Dean considered the card. _Unique weapons, huh. Maybe this was about a case._ Considered the strange little man. _Maybe the man was a case._ Either way, the address wasn’t far and the whole thing was just weird and interesting enough to make it worth checking out. After some apple pie for breakfast. _With a side of bacon, because screw hangovers._

The shop was surprisingly hard to find, down a narrow alley to an almost hidden door around the back of a rundown bodega. Dean entered in a foul mood fueled by both the stubborn remnants of his hangover and the humiliation of having to ask for directions more than once. _This better be worth it._ As he stopped in the open doorway to let his eyes adjust from the bright winter sun, he was immediately hit by the achingly familiar scents of wood polish, metal, and gun oil. Oddly reassured, he stepped between two long hip-height display cases set so close together he could easily touch both at the same time. Peering through the dim shop lighting into the cases, he could make out an astonishing variety of small hand weapons – jackknives, switchblades, machetes, shurikens, brass knuckles…and handguns. _Lots_ of handguns. Derringers, pistols and what looked like an Elizabethan wheellock, next to modern semiautomatics and everything in between. Fascinated, Dean stepped further into the room. Once adjusted to the light, his eyes were drawn to the walls behind the cases. These were covered in bigger weapons: long barrel guns, bows of all types, and even a few spears. He stared in awe at a huge gun collection that included both newer models – Remington hunting rifles next to Barret sniper rifles, Uzis and AK47s – and older, more obscure firearms –Tommy guns, muskets, and even a blunderbuss. He wondered dazedly if, somewhere in the shop, he’d be able to find a phased plasma rifle in the 40-watt range.

Almost childlike, Dean spent a few moments practically darting back and forth, examining each shiny new thing that caught his eye. He was just trying to make out the inscription on a particularly evil looking blade (sacrificial knife?) when a sudden chuckle snapped his head up and his hand to the gun hidden under his shirt.

The far end of the long, narrow shop was cloaked in shadow, but Dean could just make out another glass case across the back. Behind this case stood…the little man from last night. His weathered face wreathed in a large customer-friendly smile, he only raised his brows at Dean’s startled reaction.

“Good morning, Mr. Winchester, I had indeed so hoped to see you today.” Dean relaxed and nodded, oddly reassured to see the little guy. He looked almost exactly as he remembered. Right down to the tidy but out-of-date suit and thin gold frames. _Good to know he was real and not a whiskey induced hallucination._ Then Dean tensed again. _Winchester_ …he’d given a stranger his real name? Dread curled heavy in his gut. _Shit_ , he had been _unacceptably_ drunk last night.

“Yeah, uh…yeah. I was, uh, a little…distracted last night. - seem to have forgotten your name.” Dean peered down at the card in his hand. “Are you Mr. Fitch or Mr. Oliver? And, um, what was it again that we discussed?”

“Oh, that’s fine, fine, no problem, no problem at all. It was your name we talked about mostly – and how it related to what I do.” The man glanced down as he busied himself tidying up the already spotless counter. “You may call me Mr. Fitch. My _brother_ is Mr. Oliver. He deals in larger items of trade – machines, transportation, and such. I deal in things that can be easily carried from the shop.” He looked up smiling into Dean’s face. “And it is not something _I_ want, but rather something _you_ might want that we discussed.

Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise. Something _he_ wanted. What the hell could he have told this strange little man he wanted?

“You were celebrating last night – your entry into adulthood?” At Dean’s look of confusion, the little man, continued. “You turned 25 yesterday, yes? No longer a young man seeking his way, but truly adult, firmly established in this world.” The man’s – _Mr. Fitch_ ’s – face crumpled in a frown. “I expressed dismay that you were celebrating this momentous occasion alone and invited you here today in consolation.” His face softened into a slow smile as he spread his arms, gesturing widely, “To you to choose for yourself a gift –something you _want,_ something _special_ \- to commemorate this milestone.” A shopkeeper’s beguiling look, a raised eyebrow. “I promised you an _excellent_ deal.”

Dean frowned as he considered the profits from last night. That amount could keep Baby purring – and him in burgers, beer, and cheap beds – for months. Or…he could throw it away on a pretty new toy. He eyed the grenade launcher hanging just over the man’s left shoulder. Considered the other questionably legal items one could find in a store like this. _Yeah…maybe it is time to do something nice for myself. Besides, it’s not like it isn’t work-related._ _Yeah, sure, this is a work expense._ Dean’s face shifted to one of his most charming. “And just how great a deal are we talkin’?”

“Only one limb?” At Dean’s raised eyebrows, the man laughed, “Nothing you can’t afford, I promise.”

After that, it was all about the art of the deal, Dean asking to examine item after item, with the man refusing to give straight answers on price, instead suggesting more and more ridiculous deals. The grenade launcher? An elephant’s left toe. Silver jackknife? Four squeaks of a bat. Ancient Colt revolver with weird inscriptions? The E-string from Gabriel’s harp. [ _I didn’t know Gabriel had a harp. Now you do.]_ No other customers came into the shop while they were haggling and the storeowner seemed content to allow Dean to explore to his heart’s content. The banter, as well as the truly awesome array of merchandise, made Dean feel a bit giddy, and eventually, relaxed enough to be…careless.

He was checking out the engraved knife he’d admired earlier – antler handle, single-edged 12 inch blade with a wickedly long point, chunky serrations, and weird script on both sides. When asked the cost, Mr. Fitch paused; face truly serious for the first time. “That…that blade is special. That blade will cost you…” He looked up, seeming to consult some internal list. “…the sacrifice of your first-born child.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “You’re _funny_. I ain’t a family man – and I’m _always_ careful. No mistakes.” He leered a bit, waggling his brows. “No way _I’m_ having a kid. Hell, my line of work, I’m not gonna live past 30, much less have kids.”

Mr. Fitch lifted his chin, considering Dean carefully. “You never know. I might get lucky - I’m willing to take payment on faith…” His face broke out in a grin again. “I won’t even require you to do the sacrificing.”

“Mighty nice of you.” Dean chuckled and moved to return the knife to Mr. Fitch, handle first. As the shopkeeper drew it from his grasp, however, the blade sliced along the pad of Dean's thumb - its edge so sharp, he saw the blood before he felt any pain.

“Oh my stars! Oh, I am so very sorry!” Mr. Fitch was truly upset, all foolishness gone. Setting the bloodied blade aside, he whipped out a bit of cloth and wrapped it around Dean’s thumb, continuing to spew anxious apologies.

“Hey, hey, it’s OK, no sweat, man, happens all the time, no big deal.” Dean fingered the cloth. Trying to distract the man, he asked “Hey, is this silk?” _Geez, what a geezer – I mean, who carries around a silk handkerchief these days?_

“Yes, yes, a gift from my brother. Impractical in my line of work, really, but I carry it to please him.” Calmer, the man looked up at Dean with a frown. “Are you _sure_ you are all right?”

“Yeah, really, this is nothin,’ you should see some of my _real_ scars.” Dean’s mouth snapped shut, his face suddenly guarded. _Son of a bitch._ He could hear his dad. _Never let down your guard, son, never. It could mean your life. My life. Sammy’s life. It’s your job to keep him safe._

The man’s head tilted, his face considering. “And just what is it you do, Mr. Winchester? You are clearly familiar with a wide range of weapons. Some type of law enforcement?”

Dean held back a sigh of relief. “Yeah, you could say that. I go after the bad guys – make sure they don’t hurt anyone.” Dean’s face slid back into a casual charm-them-all expression once again. “Fight evil, save the girl, all that.”

“Ah,” the man’s face slid into an easy smile in return. “The work of a righteous man, protecting the world from things that go bump in the night.” Mr. Fitch nodded, his expression oddly approving. Dean scoffed audibly, but wondered for a moment what the man knew of Hunters. Or of Hunting.

“And I am sure I have _just_ the thing for you.” Mr. Fitch moved over to an unexplored section of the case containing mostly handguns. “What you need is a tool you can rely on. Something sturdy that will never let you down in a tight spot.” He brought out a shiny semi-automatic and laid it on the counter. “Colt, .45 caliber, 7 shots. Standard of the US military for 75 years. Previously owned, of course, but utterly reliable.” He pushed the weapon across the counter. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”

The gun was fancy – nickel plated, ivory grips, ornate engraving – and Dean just knew there was no way that he could afford it. His fingers danced over the scrollwork and caressed the handle. His dad would make fun of such a ‘damn fool sissy thing’ – but Dean found himself caught by the beauty of the piece. _C’mon, it can’t hurt to look._ He picked it up, finding the weight and shape of it strangely comfortable, almost like….the fit of his Baby’s wheel under his hands. He checked the basics, ejecting the magazine, snapping it back in, and then checking the slide. A tendril of pleasure curled low in his gut. _This gun is so very, very sexy._ Impulsively, Dean decided that he _wanted_ this gun. Wanted it just because…well, because he _wanted_ it. Glancing up at the man behind the counter, he raised his eyebrows in a question.

“That gun is special – even used. On the open market, it likely sells for,” Mr. Fitch paused, clearly making mental calculations. “Between twenty-five hundred to three thousand dollars.” Dean’s heart skipped a beat. “But for you,” the shopkeeper continued, without pause, “Only one thousand. Cash, of course.” It was the first time the man quoted a straightforward cost and it was still far beyond what Dean could afford – assuming he still wanted to eat and put fuel in the Impala. They quickly dickered it down to $750, which made Dean feel guilty, for the gun was worth so much more. As much as he’d like the gun, he simply couldn’t convince himself to blow that much on something he _wanted_ but didn’t really _need_. Ruefully, he started to shake his head when the man held up his hand.

Reaching out, Mr. Fitch picked up the bit of bloodied silk from where Dean had laid it on the counter. “You know, shop like mine, stock sometimes takes quite a long time to move.” He paused, looking away towards the back of the shop. “I feel the need to clear some inventory…and since it _is_ a birthday gift…” He turned back to Dean and held up the scrap of silk. “Four-fifty and the blood of a righteous man. Final offer.” At Dean’s frozen expression the man’s face again twisted into the conniving salesman. “Come now, this is the deal of a lifetime, yes?”

Dean stomped down the panic that rose up at the mention of a blood trade and gave himself a quick mental shake. _He’s a harmless old coot - just trying to be nice. Don’t be such a paranoid shit._   So he shrugged and grinned in return, shaking his head. “Righteous man? You’re a funny, funny guy.” Mr. Fitch just waggled his brows and grinned. “Seems like you’d be getting a raw deal – nothing special about me – just a workin’ man, trying to stay alive, one day at a time.” The shopkeeper shrugged one shoulder, his grin steady. Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Not trying to pawn off a lemon are you? Turns out it’s a dud and when I come back you don’t know me?” Dean’s tone was teasing, but a slender threat of steel ran underneath.

“Absolutely not.” Mr. Fitch’s grin vanished, his tone completely sincere and even slightly offended at the accusation. “My brother and I stand behind every item we sell. That gun is 100% reliable, guaranteed never to jam or misfire – under almost any condition. If you _ever_ have any trouble with it, just contact us.” At a sharp nod from Dean, Mr. Fitch slid another business card across the counter. “Call us, any time, day or night.”

As he dipped into last night’s winnings to pay (no invasive government paperwork for _this_ transaction), Dean allowed himself to gloat a bit over his prize. “Man, I wish I could show this to my little brother.” The thought of Sam’s reaction widened Dean’s grin. “He’d act like it was no big deal, but Sammy’d be _so_ jealous.”

Mr. Fitch smiled, a gleam in his eye. He knew about the rivalry between brothers. “It sounds like you miss him. Is he far away?”

Dean shrugged. “Far enough.” He tucked the gun away, grin fading. “Far enough to keep safe. And happy – I hope, anyway.” He nodded to Mr. Fitch. “Pleasure doing business.”

The shopkeeper nodded briskly in return. “Pleasure is all ours, to be sure.”

As Dean walked back to the Impala, he noted that his headache had cleared and his spirits lifted once again. Tucking away his guns, he started the car and settled into the seat with a contented sigh. _Happy birthday to ME_. He popped in a tape from the box under the seat, cranking the volume as he pulled out onto the highway. “ _Yeah,”_ Dean thought to himself, _“It’s about time I paid Sam another visit. Just to be sure.”_

Back in the store, Mr. Fitch quietly tidied up from the transaction, tucking away the cash. With great care, he used the bloodied silk to wipe the knife clean and then hid the blade away on a shelf underneath the display case. Humming, Mr. Fitch then gently folded the cloth in a complicated pattern and tucked it into his breast pocket. After locking the door, he exited through the curtained doorway at the back. Oddly, the humming continued in the empty room for several minutes after he left.

 

********************

**March 5, 1970, Duson, LA**

The bell rang while he was in the back, taking inventory of the rarer fungi and lichens from Tierra Del Fuego. As he passed through the curtain to the front of the shop, he found a young man overdressed for the local climate, a leather jacket layered over plaid flannel and a t-shirt. His hair a bit long in the back, moustache down to the edges of his chin, and grim expression similar to those at Kent State the day before. The man, perhaps 25, was examining the contents of the weapons cases that lined the narrow aisle leading to the counter, occasionally having to duck to avoid the ceremonial spears and atlatls suspended from the ceiling on wires.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Elkins, I’ve been expecting you. You called about a particular weapon. A gun wasn’t it? A very _distinctive_ gun.” He reached under the counter to bring out an oilcloth wrapped bundle and placed it gently on the counter. Elkins’ body stilled, eyes suddenly glued to the small angular shape and his expression shifting from grim towards a scowl.

“I am positive we have what you are looking for here, but I believe we may need to discuss the matter of price a bit further.” Wisely, he kept his hand on the bundle, drawing it subtly backwards when the man’s hand made an abortive jerk forward.

“Price…” the man almost growled, flashing his eyes up to the shopkeeper’s face.

“Yes, I’m afraid a simple cash transaction as we discussed will not be sufficient. With an item this unique leaving our inventory, we find that it is imperative to replace it with something of similar value and quality. Might you have such a thing available for trade?”

Elkins scowled even more deeply.

“Trade,” he stated flatly, a warning clear in his voice. “You want something _in addition_ to the cash?”

“Why yes, yes we do, good sir.” The shopkeeper grinned disarmingly. “Is it possible that you have recently come into possession of something… _very special_?” He knew the answer, but this was all part of the process. The customer had to provide an item in trade. The knowing customer had to provide it knowingly. The unknowing customer, however…well that was an entirely different matter.

Elkins reached slowly inside his inner jacket pocket and drew out a small bottle. The design was antique, from the mid 1800’s he would hazard, flat glass with a corked wide-mouth opening. The glass was weathered, grimy and opaque with age. He set it on the counter with a tiny click and slid it forward, covering it possessively with his hand.

“Ammunition,” he said peremptorily.

“Ah, I see you have a knack for bargaining. Yes, this gun is significantly less valuable without the proper ammunition. One moment.” Keeping one hand on the bundle, he used the other to bring a small rectangular wooden box from under the counter to join it.  The wood was dark with age, corners worn smooth. The top slid back to reveal two rows of holes, thirteen in all, the last centered between the two rows. Five of the holes were empty.

“I’m afraid there aren’t very many, eight only. But a careful man like yourself should be able to make do, yes?” The man nodded, slowly, scowl shifting towards a leer of avarice. “Excellent.” He slid the box shut with a snap. “Now let us each examine the other’s merchandise, shall we?” he pushed the cloth wrapped bundle forward and removed his hand. The box, however, he kept close to his body. At the man’s sharp look, he huffed a small laugh.

“Now, you know better than that. You may examine the gun and the ammunition separately. That is standard practice.” He gestured towards the object hidden beneath the man’s palm. “May I?” Grudgingly, the man lifted his hand as he picked up the bundle and began to unwrap it.

It took careful effort to remove the cork from the bottle without releasing any of its contents. He sniffed at it, nodded, then set it on the counter while he brought out a small set of scales. Pouring the grey powdery contents of the bottle on one side, he began fiddling with the tiny weights to find the perfect balance point. The man, meanwhile, caressed the gun almost lovingly as he tested its function and examined its inscriptions.

“Hmm, a very small sample. Barely enough for two…applications, I think.” As Elkins’ head snapped up, the shopkeeper held up a hand placatingly. “Along with the cash, it is sufficient.” He gestured towards the gun in the man’s hands. “If you would like to examine the ammunition while I return this to its container?” Elkins traded items, albeit reluctantly, but wasted no time in opening the box to examine its contents. The shopkeeper’s work was very fussy, the grey powder so very fine that it took several minutes to be sure that all was now safely back in place. He nodded to his customer. “Is all satisfactory?” At Elkins’ grunted agreement, he became brisk.

“Well, then, the price is one million US dollars, in legal tender, along with the contents of the bottle. And how will you be paying today?”  Wordlessly, Elkins again reached inside his jacket and this time withdrew a black velvet bag. Undoing an intricate knot, he spilled the brightly glinting contents on the counter. “Excellent, sir. It will be only a moment to appraise their value. In the meantime, would you be so kind as to return the box?” A careful man, he never left the client alone with the merchandise. Not after that time in Babylonia. No, never again. His brother would never let him hear the end of it.

Later, transaction concluded, he shook the man’s hand and wished him well. _A foolish wish_ , he thought as he watched Elkins walk out the door.

 

************

**December 6, 1991, Whiting, IN**

Bobby cursed and clutched the bundle tightly to his chest as he searched the decidedly seedy neighborhood for a door labeled 204 ½. He was half convinced he wasn’t even in the right part of the city. About a third of the doors had no numbers at all and most of the rest led to clearly abandoned businesses or rundown tenement buildings from the turn of the century. _This was a gol-danged stupid idea and I was a damn fool to let Pamela talk me into it._

The carefully wrapped book was one of his oldest and most precious resources and it _never_ left the house.  Yet here he was, half convinced by a sass talking _seer_ to trade it – an _even_ trade, mind you – for a charm whose powers he had to take _on faith_. Bobby had never relied over much on faith even when Karen was alive and he had precious little left now. Which, he supposed, was why he was here…because he’d pretty much lost all faith in his best friend’s ability to keep himself safe. And right now, John was all that stood between those boys and the evil that hunted them. _Pigheaded fool dragging those boys around the country, exposing them to all kinds of danger – human and otherwise._ Those boys’ safety was what’d convinced him to drag his precious grimoire halfway across the country – Pamela had _seen_ something that she swore would keep the boys _safe_.

“I’ll be goddamned,” Bobby swore under his breath as he finally spotted the doorway. He’d probably passed it four times already and simply missed it in the jumble of street trash and boarded up shop entrances. Not that the gloom of the grey winter day helped much either. _Buy • Sell • Trade_ it said in faded black lettering on the door and then in smaller print underneath, _Lost and Found, Ltd_. Bobby took a deep breath, clutched his bundle tighter, and stepped inside.

What he found was a treasure trove, a hunter’s wet dream of supplies and lore. Down a narrow hall that suddenly jogged to the left and through a more brightly painted red door, the place opened up into a mind-bending jumble of boxes and shelves, bookcases and cabinets. It was like an apothecary shop and a library had been tossed together with the remnants of a half dozen flea markets and then organized by two blind men who couldn’t agree. On _anything_. The lighting, although better than expected from the corridor, still left the corners and ceiling concealed in half shadows. Peering upwards through decrepit fishing nets and bundles of dried plants, Bobby could swear there was an alligator or a crocodile hanging up there somewhere. He was half convinced that he could find the Holy Grail here if he just searched long enough. It was magnificent…and he had to ignore every bit of it. Pamela had given him strict instructions. Get in, make the trade, get out.

_“It’s not the kind of place to explore Bobby, no matter what you see. Don’t let yourself get distracted by shiny things or talked into anything extra – anything at all. This is the kind of place where you can lose much more than you gain…lose yourself if you aren’t very careful. But they have what you need – what you want, Bobby. Stay focused on that and you’ll be OK.”_

Bobby closed his eyes and concentrated on picturing the boys – his boys as much as John’s these days. Which pissed John off to no end, leading to some explosive arguments and harsh words better left unsaid. Maybe even some gun waving. Bobby heaved a sigh and opened his eyes, looking for the shopkeeper. He needed to get this trade done and head back home before he missed the boy’s holiday visit. John had promised him at least that much.

“And a good day to you, Mr. Singer. I have been awaiting your arrival. Did you bring the agreed upon item to trade?”

Bobby whipped around towards the voice. The man was short, but not dwarven, balding and wizened, but not unpleasant to look at. A set of thin black frames perched on his nose and he wore an old-fashioned watch chain on his vest. He stood by a glass case crammed full of jewelry. Looking closer, Bobby could identify common charms and protection symbols on over half of the items. The man noticed his interest and nodded.

“I have the special item you requested over the phone. Guaranteed for 20 years or your trade item returned, postage included.” Bobby snorted in disbelief. The little man’s face became grave. “Our wares are beyond reproach, Mr. Singer. Mr. Anderson carried something quite similar for the past seven years. Kept him alive and brought him safely home. Eventually.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes locked with Bobby’s and suddenly he was sure that this guy was the real thing – was, in fact, so much more than he seemed. Creepy didn’t even begin to cover it.

Bowing slightly, the man waved his hand to indicate the package Bobby carried. “May I see?”

Slowly, Bobby, handed over the grimoire. _This is for the boys_ , he reminded himself. _I’m doing this for them._

Later, as he left the store, Bobby mulled over his plans to get John to wear the amulet. _I’ll give it to Sam to give to him. The idjit’s just gotta accept a gift from his own son. I mean at least at Christmas, anyway…_

Mr. Fitch placed the book carefully on a shelf next to its twin. He’d make sure it was returned to its home in Sioux Falls eventually – in a roundabout way, of course. The news of this trade would make his brother very happy. Almost a holiday gift of sorts. _He does so like it when things go according to plan._

 

*************************************

  **April 6, 2008, Pontiac, IL**

This time he was shelving new additions to the paperback inventory on the far west wall when he heard the bell. Placing a marker to keep his place between Eager and Edlund, he made his way towards the front of the shop.  There he found a tall, dark-haired man, 30ish, sporting a bemused look as he glanced over the displays of used clothing crowding the front of the shop. The man was dressed conservatively in an off-the-rack dark suit and battered grey raincoat.

“Welcome to Oliver and Fitch, sir, how can we be of assistance?” He wore his number three polite and disarming smile, appropriate for a wide range of customers.

“I, um, I think I may be in the wrong place.”  His face was open and friendly, with very bright blue eyes. Mr. Fitch found himself quickly warming to the man and adjusted his smile accordingly.

“That all depends, good sir, what is it that you seek?”

 “A friend of mine at church, um, I was admiring his new overcoat. He gave me this address…highly recommended you.” A look of chagrin began to cross his features as he fingered a worn and carefully patched sleeve on the nearest rack. “I think he may have been pulling my leg.”

“Not so, not so, we have some very fine items for the discerning customer.” He looked closely at the man’s face, nodded, and then stepped back, glancing up and down in an assessing manner. “An overcoat, is it? Black, I assume, with long lines and a dramatic flair?”

The customer laughed, his face brightening and eyes twinkling. “No, no, nothing like that. Well, long, I guess, to help keep my legs dry, and good quality, but nothing fancy.” The man ducked his head slightly, embarrassed, but still smiling. “I’m afraid my budget is fairly tight.”

“Very pleased to help, sir. I am certain we have what you need, sure of it. If you would step this way?” He guided the man further into the shop to the counter along the back.  “You are what, 6 foot? 40 inch chest?” The man nodded, clearly impressed. Mr. Fitch waved it off. “It is a skill in my family, developed over many, many years of shop keeping.” Behind the counter, he began rummaging through packages carefully stacked on the back wall of shelves. Over his shoulder he tossed, “And you? What do you do that provides such a modest income and yet requires such a coat?”

“I’m in sales – radio advertising – the pay is moderate, really, but my family, we try to live frugally. We give much to the church. For those less fortunate.” A gentle smile graced the man’s lips at this statement.

Mr. Fitch stopped his rummaging, turning to face the man who was looking down humbly. “Ah, a devout soul. A willing vessel to the will of your Lord, yes?”

The man looked back up. “A servant of the Lord, yes, but I…I wouldn’t call myself a vessel.” His brows drew into a brief frown and his next words were hesitant, carefully considered. “A vessel…from what I understand an actual vessel should be pure and special. And I’m just a very ordinary man, and a flawed one at that.” The man’s face was rueful, clearly contemplating past transgressions.

“Vessels, I think, come in all shapes and sizes, whatever best fits the purpose for which it is chosen. You are, I imagine, a far better choice than those down in Texas, yes?” As a wave of sadness passed over the man’s face, Mr. Fitch turned back to his shelves and made a decisive selection. The bundle he brought back to the counter was packaged in brown paper and tied with cotton twine in a quaint, old-fashioned manner. He patted the parcel. “This, I think, would be suited to the work ahead of you – both the mundane and the celestial.” Mr. Fitch grinned up at the man, helping to chase the frown from his face.

Briskly, the shopkeeper cut the string and unwrapped a tan trench coat of classic lines. Shaking it out, he stepped around the counter and gestured for the man to turn so he could help him try it on. He tweaked the collar into place, helped settle the fabric across the broad shoulders and pinched away a few dark hairs from the light colored cloth. “This is very gently used but it fits OK, yes? And is long enough?” At the man’s nod, Mr. Fitch circled around him, nodding, twitching things into place. Stepping back with his chin tucked into his chest, the shopkeeper’s brows drew down in a slight frown. “A bit big for your frame, I think.” He glanced up, his face mischievous. “The frame of an ordinary man.”

The dark-haired man laughed, nodding as he was guided to a full-length mirror nearby. “It looks very good, and the fit is just fine, really. But this coat is almost brand new and so sturdy.” He sighed wistfully. “I am sure that this is well beyond my means.”

Mr. Fitch waved an admonishing finger. “That is no way to bargain, young man! You should be critical of the item, reluctant to buy.” His eyes twinkled, taking in the man’s answering grin. Shaking his head, Mr. Fitch began the spiel. “For you, today, I will make for you a special offer. What do you say to a hundred and fifty dollars?”

“I say that this coat is worth every penny of that, but too high for me.” Reluctantly, the man began to remove the coat.

“Ah, perhaps you have some skill after all. How about one twenty five?” The man stilled, face careful, but shook his head slowly. “Ah, a hard bargainer. One hundred? No, wait, your old coat in trade and…eighty-six fifty.”

The man stood there with one shoulder partially out of the tan coat and his mouth hanging open. Finally, he stuttered, “You can’t…that’s…I can’t let you do that.”

“I can do what I wish, I own this establishment. This is my final offer. The grey coat, 86 dollars and 50 cents, plus…three hairs from the head of a true vessel.” He held up the hairs he had removed earlier and winked. “To cover the tax, of course.” He waggled his forefinger again at the man. “No more bargaining, I stand firm in this.”

Shaking his head, the man shrugged the coat back onto his shoulder, opened his wallet and drew out all of the bills within, He carefully counted out all eighty-six dollars exactly, and then fished in his pocket for the change. “That is everything I have on me. How did you…you know what, I don’t think I want to know.” He tilted his head to the side, squinting at the man in quiet wonder.

“That is for the best, yes, yes.” Mr. Fitch bustled about, tucking away the hairs and the money, and wrapping up the old coat with the paper and string. “You have made an excellent choice, the fabric is very sturdy, the construction quite special. This is a coat to last you a life time.” He paused, finger to his lips, once again examining the man up and down. “Several lifetimes, perhaps.”

The man brushed his hands down the fabric of the coat appreciatively. “It really is _very_ fine.” He looked up, his blue eyes practically glowing with gratitude. “Thank you,” the man said with simple sincerity.

Mr. Fitch tsked and shook his head. “No need for thanks, it is what we do. It is what we do. In fact, with this coat, I think I will throw in a tie. I have one here, I am sure, that would be just right…will bring out the color of your eyes…”

 

************

**August 3 rd, 2007, Hell, Michigan**

The blonde woman stared angrily down the empty dockside street. She hated being sent on bloodless errands. The thing in Minnesota had been much more satisfying – full of delicious screams and gore. But that was two days ago already and she’d been told – warned – that there could be no blood in this task. She slid her eyes across the desolation and decay that went on for block after sweltering block. Disgusted, she began to move forward, her lip curling in disgust. _No fun to be had here – everything’s already dead_. She was cunning and powerful, with _decades_ of experience topside before this most recent escape. Delivery work was a waste of her talents.

The few working streetlights flickered and then failed as she passed. _Good thing I can see in the dark._ A sneer twisted her face. _Lots of fun things can happen in the dark_. Turned out, however, the shopfront she wanted wasn’t hard to find. Down a dark side alley, a flickering glow cast ghastly shadows out onto the street. She followed the light, frowning, tracking it to a pair of grime-encrusted windows. Between them stood a very small door, barely taller than the perfectly average height of her chosen body. The door was not locked. Or warded against her kind. Her smile turned feral as she entered. _This might be fun after all._ She had a habit of failing to follow directions.

The cramped space (she wouldn’t call it a store) was dark with shadows, lit by only a single oil lantern on the back counter. It smelled of dust, wood rot, and small things left to die. Broken displays lined the walls, the few intact shelves empty of all but an almost impressive collection of cobwebs. Vermin scattered as she stepped across the floor towards the light and the figure she could sense shrouded in the darkness behind.

“Step into the light,” she ordered. _None of this hiding bullshit._ The figure took one step forward deliberately, speaking as his features were revealed.

“Approach the counter slowly. Keep your hands where they can be seen.”

The voice was deep and cold, like something dredged from a sepulcher. The figure was small, perhaps five inches shorter than her own frame, with pink rheumy eyes barely visible in a dried-apple face. The man – she was sure the almost hairless figure was male – spoke no further, simply staring at her impassively until she reached the negligible barrier of glass and wood.

She was certain he knew what she was. The counter was _thoroughly_ warded. This pissed her off.

“Such a charming shop,” she sneered. “You know what they say, location, location, location. It almost reminds me of home.” Her expression flattened. “Not.”

The man raised his chin slightly, but said nothing. He simply continued to stare into her face placidly.

She tossed her head with impatience. No fun _at all_. “Fine. I’m here to pick up a purchase for my employer.”

He nods, “Yes, a knife, I believe.”

She nodded, sharply. “Yeah. Something _really special_ ,” she said. “Something _dangerous_.”

“All blades are dangerous…if used incautiously.” The voice was somehow – impossibly – even creepier than before. A shiver ran down her spine.

He placed a knife on the counter, cradled in a piece of thick brown suede. Defiantly, she snatched it up. “Gotta see if it is the real thing – what we _ordered_.” Her master had given detailed instructions regarding authentication. She was not to be pawned off with some trinket.

The knife was thick and sturdy, a single edged blade approximately 10-12 inches long. Its elk antler handle was stained brown with age, yet worn to pure white around the hilt by the friction of many hands over time. She noted the Kurdish sigils that danced along both sides of the blade, which was edged with wide, nasty-looking serrations. She extended her senses, evaluating the knife as per instructions. Several long minutes later, she set it back down on the counter, convinced of its authenticity. And of its deadliness.

“Payment…” she began.

He cut her off. “Already delivered, a half dozen, in mint condition, as agreed.”

“Does it have a sheath?”

The man folded his hands together on the counter, his expression carefully bland. “That depends. What are you willing to pay?”

She snarled, “ _Nothing_ , old man.” She snatched up the knife and waved it casually near his throat. This was a bluff. She couldn’t touch him and he knew it.

“Then I am afraid, there is no sheath available at this time.” His face remained impassive.

She tossed him a dirty look, eyes flickering momentarily to black. His face was like stone. She was really beginning to loathe this man. Tucking the blade into her belt, she turned on her heel and practically stomped back towards the door, seething.

 As she opened the door, she heard him call out. “Be careful with that knife, my dear.”

She paused, her hand on the door, her back stiff.

“It is quite sharp. You wouldn’t want to hurt yourself.”

She tossed a look of pure hatred back over her shoulder.

 “You’ll find it cuts quite deeply…”

The door slammed, cutting off his last words.

“…in the end.”

 

*********************************************************

 **November 14, 2005,** **Alice Acres, Texas**

He found the place much easier than expected, even with Dean’s crappy directions. It was in a basement space around the side of the building, not on the ground floor at the back, and the shop out front was a seedy florist, not a bodega (although given the neighborhood, that change was entirely possible in the time since Dean was last here). Sam hesitated at the top of the stair, giving a small sigh while staring down at the dimly lit door. Eventually, like a man walking to the gallows, he began to descend.

They’d been traveling south and east from Colorado, partly researching possible leads on Dad, but also because being in motion almost always felt better, _safer_ than staying in one place. Dean was obnoxiously upbeat, clearly pleased to have Sam riding shotgun and optimistic that John would turn up – tight-lipped about where he’d been – like always. Sam on the other hand, was a mess, by turns morose, manic, or bitchy. Being here, hunting again, was everything he’d tried to leave behind and yet now it was all he could think about. _Find Dad. Find the demon. Kill it as slowly and painfully as possible._ And those thoughts appalled him – the opposite of what he had hoped for himself. For himself and Jess.

 _Jess…_ Jess’ absence was a dull throbbing wound that would suddenly spike blindingly painful, bringing tears to his eyes at the oddest of moments. Everything felt off, wrong somehow, even riding in the Impala. Sam’s place was in the backseat, with Dean and Dad up front. Riding shotgun was a rare privilege gained only when one of them was wounded or needed to crash on an all-night drive. He didn’t fit here, in this life; this wasn’t his place. Some part of his brain clung to the idea that it was all temporary and that after the demon was dead, he could still go back. Could still have that other life.

The other part, the colder, mercilessly analytical part of Sam’s brain, knew that would never happen. That the other life had only ever been an act, Sam trying to play a part he wanted so very desperately to be true. Knew that even after years away, he could still best his brother in a fight, still had a dozen weapons stashed within easy reach throughout the apartment, and felt hideously naked with unsalted windows. (Jess hadn’t known about the subtle lines he’d laid in the cracks and under the lintels – he simply couldn’t sleep without them.) And as much as he hated that part of his brain, he knew that, in a way, it was right. But he'd been willing to live that fiction, had been looking forward to enjoying a lifetime of happy lies – until it had cost Jess her life. Now this painfully familiar reality was all he had left. He knew that. He just dreaded it.

Seeking to distract Sam, Dean rattled on from behind the wheel about all the stuff Sam had missed while he had been ‘goofing off.’ The hunts Dean had been on – alone or with John. The girls he’d screwed, the rubes he’d fleeced, and even the toys he’d bought. That’s when Dean had hauled out the gun. Handed it to Sam and waxed eloquent about all its virtues, real or imagined. Sam thought the gun a bit too pretty for Dean’s taste and had told him so, just to get a rise out of him. Dean called him a bitch (true) and snatched the gun back out of Sam’s hands. Told him to get his own damn gun and ragged on what a ‘nerd gun’ would look like. Sam told him to go screw himself and turned moodily to rest his head on the window, ostensibly trying to sleep, but they both knew better. As the miles passed by, Sam found that the idea of his own _personal_ weapon – something specifically _his_ , for dispensing his _personal_ justice – kept floating to the front of his brain. That cold analytical part, anyway.

Later that night, in a hotel somewhere in the Oklahoma panhandle, Sam offhandedly mentioned that getting his own gun maybe wasn’t such a bad idea and Dean all but crowed aloud. He spent forever looking through his duffel and the car until he came back with a battered business card. _I know just the place_ , he said, _this guy will hook you up_. _And it’s not all that far, besides, you always like Texas._

Which is how Sam came to be pacing in small circles at the base of a dim stairwell, before an almost featureless door adorned only with a business card thumbtacked at chest height.

He couldn’t understand his reluctance to go in. It wasn’t the illegal arms dealing factor - shit, he’d bought guns from shady characters since before he could pass for 18. Yet every time he placed his hand on the doorknob, his stomach clenched and something suspiciously like panic tried to crawl up his spine. The fear was stupid. Sure, caution was always warranted in these situations, but Sam was confident he could handle whatever was on the other side of the door. Besides, _Dean_ vouched for the guy. That cold analytical voice told him he was wasting time and to just get over it. Teeth clenched, Sam forced himself to step inside.

After folding his frame to fit through the low door, his fear vanished entirely, replaced by complete and utter awe. The place was simply packed with weapons – in display cases, hung along the walls above the cases, hell, hanging from the ceiling, even. Pole arms, long bows, and lances rubbed elbows with modern rifles, sub-machine guns, and…things he couldn’t even _guess_. On autopilot, Sam quickly assessed the layout of the shop – a wide and shallow rectangle, with the right and left ends so far off, they were shrouded in a worrying gloom. Low glass cases filled with handguns, knives and more exotic hand weapons paralleled the long back wall, forming a counter that protected a series of taller cabinets with (Sam assumed) even more valuable items inside. Utterly fascinated, Sam descended a few short steps and entered the shop proper, glancing back over his shoulder to be sure the door shut behind. And then he began cursing. Aloud.

_Goddamned, myopic, anti-nerd Dean hadn’t mentioned the books. Of course he hadn’t._

Lining the walls opposite the display counter were bookcases - floor to at least 10-foot high ceiling – crammed full of books. And not used paperbacks or undersold pulpy hardcovers, but _tomes_. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, tiny ones – antique cloth and leather bound spines cracked and discolored with age, or even missing entirely. Of the few that had visible print, he could make out Old English, Latin and Greek, and perhaps old Norse, but many were scripts he’d never even seen, much less knew how to read.  Sam stared, jaw agape, and began to move almost unconsciously towards this unimaginable trove.

“Welcome, welcome, Mr. Winchester, I am so very glad to see you.” Sam’s mouth snapped shut, hip dropped and hand snapped towards his knife as he whipped around. A small elderly gentleman in tweed, sporting a benign retail smile, stood behind the back counter. Gentle movement of a curtain led Sam to assume he had just stepped out of some back storage room. “Your brother’s call was a pleasant but not unexpected event.” The man was small and thin, his lined face rather scholarly, reminding Sam of his Latin professor at Stanford. Not the type of person he expected as owner of a gun shop… _but then this isn’t really just a gun shop, now is it?_

“Oh, um, hello. Wait, you were expecting Dean’s call? Why?...How…” Sam’s questions trailed off under the man’s scrutiny. Dean had said the man was strange but harmless, but Sam was not so sure. The intensity of the shopkeeper’s stare was unnerving and yet seemed strangely familiar. _Maybe I’ve seen him somewhere before…like in a dream?_ Sam slammed the door on that thought and the fear and guilt that surged up along with it.

The man’s hands raised in restraint and his face shifted to something softer, less eldritch. “No magic, just an educated prediction. When he was here, your brother mentioned you and your likely reaction to his purchase.” The man’s expression became slightly smug. “I have a brother of my own. We also envy each other’s…acquisitions. Your brother indicated that you too wished to purchase a handgun? Yes?” At the question, Sam glanced back over his shoulder at the bookshelves, but brought himself to face forward with a small shake. _Not books, gun. A Hunter’s gun. For hunting the demon._

“Yes. A gun like Dean’s. Well, not _exactly_ like Dean’s…” Sam’s words stumbled to a halt and his shoulders hunched forward in the face of the man’s knowingly amused expression.

“Like your brother’s, but not like it. Yes, I know this dilemma personally.” The shopkeeper’s tone became rueful. “I too am the younger brother. It is hard, I think, to be second...but then it is also difficult, I guess, to be first.” He waggled his hand in an attempt to express the challenge and gave a small chuckle.

“So, a gun.” He rubbed his hands together and moved down the case purposefully. “You work in enforcement, like your brother?” His head lifted to glance up appraisingly at Sam’s face.

Again, Sam reconsidered his brother’s assessment of this man. _Does he know about Hunters? Does he know what we do?_ A bit of his earlier fear curled in his gut. _And if he does, what then?_ Sam quickly considered his options and decided to play it safe. _Keep it relaxed, put on the face._ “Yes, enforcement. Keeping people safe. I’m…just returning to the work. I’ve been…away…studying.” A quick glance again over his shoulder and then a stiffening of his posture. “I need something reliable, effective. Good stopping power but not too large.” He paused, considering his recent research. “A Beretta maybe?”

“Good choice, good choice, but perhaps…yes, I have just the thing.” He reached into the display and selected something quickly. When he laid it on the counter, he kept his hand over it. Sam caught only a flash of silver and white.

“A cousin to the Beretta Model 92FS, this Taurus is a 9 mm with power similar to your brother’s Colt. A more modern design, it has a 17 round magazine standard – as opposed to your brother’s 7.” He lifted his hand away. “Not as fancy, I fear…stainless where his is nickel-plated and without any of the etching.”

Sam’s heart nearly stopped. It had mother-of-pearl grips. _Jess…oh, Jess_. She had loved pearls, mother-of-pearl especially. The full weight of the guilt and grief and loss that he’d been keeping at bay for weeks came crashing down all at once. He clutched the counter edge, dropping his head and shoulders under the mass of emotion, struggling to breath.

“Mr. Winchester?” The worried voice seemed far away. “Mr. Winchester…Sam…are you quite alright? Are you well?”

The kindness nearly did him in, and Sam choked back a sob. He’d cried at her funeral, just a bit, but nothing since. He didn’t want to now.

“I’m…I’m fine, it’s…I’m _fine_.” Sam shook his head, clearing hair from his face and looked up, eyes shiny. Huffed a big breath.

The shopkeeper’s eyes were kind, his voice gentle, probing. “You’ve lost someone. Someone dear.” His hand reached out to gently cover Sam’s on the counter. “Recently I think?”

The threatened tears spilled over, running silently down Sam’s face. He dropped his chin, embarrassed. When he’d lost her, lost her _to him_ , he’d lost everything…his life, his dreams, his bid for freedom. There was nothing left. _Only Dean. I always have Dean._  Sam clutched at that truth like a rock in the rapids.

“Here, take this.” A small white square appeared in his vision. Looking up, Sam saw the concern in the other’s face. “I am _so_ sorry.”

Sam took the proffered handkerchief, mumbling his thanks and turning away as he wiped at his eyes and cheeks.

The sound of a door slamming distracted them both. A brusque voice called out, “Delivery!”

Sam kept his back turned, unwilling to face a stranger. He focused on their conversation to help settle himself.

“Ah, there you are. You are late.” The softness was abruptly gone. The shopkeeper was all business now. “I was expecting you earlier. Now you have interrupted a customer.”

“Yeah, yeah, cool your jets, Fitch, there was traffic. The boss’ll drop the fee.” The thin nasal voice was young, bored, and obnoxious. “I need your signature for the goods.”

“I will not sign until I have inspected the contents. That is the arrangement.” Haughty, almost imperious, as he dressed the man down with his voice.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just hurry up man. Like you said, I’m runnin’ behind.”

Calmer, Sam risked a glance over his shoulder at the pair. The shopkeeper, _Mr. Fitch, he'd said_ , had opened an aluminum hard case, a soft glow streaming out. He glanced over at Sam, hesitated, and then seemed to come to a decision.

“Would you like to see?” The kindness was back. “My brother says they are very rare.”

Intrigued despite himself, Sam moved to join them further down the counter. Mr. Fitch turned the case, opening it wider. Inside, nestled in a bed of shaped foam, were six small squat bottles, each smaller than the palm of his hand. Each contained a soft blue-white pulsing glow that gently swirled in random patterns.

Sam was enthralled. “What are they?” he whispered. It suddenly seemed like he should be whispering. Like the world was holding its breath. _Who is this guy?_

A short snort broke the spell. “Knowing my brother? They could be anything. He’s an engineer of sorts. Loves to experiment with machines and exotic substances.” The man’s face shifted to a teasing smile. “Ancient Aztec batteries? Tiny supernovas? Souls of the unborn?” At Sam’s horrified look, he raised his hands and waggled his brows, grinning.

Sam barked a laugh. “Dean said you were a funny guy.” He nodded at the case and the impatient delivery guy - kid, really. “Everything good?”

“Yes, of course, back to business.” Snapping the case shut, Mr. Fitch signed with a flourish and a sharp nod. “I have noted the time. And I will tell your ‘boss’ of my disappointment in your performance.”

“Yeah, you do that, Fitch. I’d like to watch.” The kid slouched off, flipping a bird as he turned to the door. Sam was silently appalled but not surprised. The kid was a jerk.

“Charming, as ever,” The tone was dryly annoyed. “I do wish my brother could conduct his own disagreeable transactions.” Mr. Fitch gestured back towards the gun on the counter. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, you wished to see a different gun.”

As they moved down the counter, Sam let his analytic brain take over. He needed to stay focused. To get the job done. He needed to show Dean he was committed – to him, to finding Dad – to the life.

“No, I…No. I’m interested in this gun.” Sam reached out to stroke the grip lightly. “My girlfriend. She…she would have loved this.” Sam looked up into a sympathetic face. His own expression hardened. _Focus._ “She died in a fire. We’re tracking the arsonist.” He handed back the handkerchief. “Thank you.” He motioned towards the gun, asking permission with his brows. “May I?”

“Yes, please, go ahead.” He too became business like once again. “And there is no thanks required.”

Sam lifted the gun, feeling the weight of it. Heavy, but a good fit to his hand. As he continued his inspection, the man rattled off further details.

“Designed for larger hands like your own, very reliable although a bit finicky about the cartridge – be sure you get high quality and pack your own. Cheap ones tend to jam. Oh, and that is real mother-of-pearl, but I have the stock black grips if you prefer.” His tone softened just a bit.

Sam shook his head. “No. I like them. It…it’s good. It makes the gun more like Dean’s.”

A dry chuckle. “Yes. Like your brother’s, but still your own. This gun will be good for that. Will help you be your own man, make your own decisions.” At Sam’s questioning look, Mr. Fitch nodded. “It is good to be together, brothers. Yet sometimes…sometimes, you must make your own way. Decide what is best for yourself.” He nodded towards the gun. “Similar, but not the same. Your life, not his, yes?”

Sam placed the gun on the counter. Looked over his shoulder at the massive wall of books. Turned back to look the ‘something-more-than-a-shopkeeper’ in the eye.

“Yes. My life.” He paused. Closed his eyes and took a breath. “How much for the gun?”

The price was beyond fair. The man mumbled something about a discount for tears shed in his shop. Sam suspected that, like he had for Dean, the man was giving him a gift, but he didn’t care. He needed this. For himself. _For Jess._

As Sam took his leave, the gun at his back carefully covered by his over shirt, Mr. Fitch called out a final cryptic caution.

“Be careful, Sam. A storm is brewing just ahead. You’ll want to choose your path carefully.” He smiled and nodded, encouragingly. “You both will.”

Sam paused at the door. Nodded. _Not just a shopkeeper._ “Thank you. I will.”

 

***********************************************************

**Epilogue**

In the back room, he placed the folded silk into a small wooden box, intricate sigils carved on all sides. Taking up an old-fashioned fountain pen, he carefully inscribed a label in flowing copperplate:  


After securely affixing the label, he placed the box next to its two companions on a high shelf. _I do so love completing a set. Brother will be pleased._

His attention was torn away when a phone ring echoed loudly in the small office. Off to one side, firmly mounted to the wall, the phone was a quaint relic not even 150 years old in this time and place. Compared to the current computerized models, it made up for its limited functions with absolute security. Also, Fitch had a sentimental attachment to its mahogany elegance, having obtained this enhanced model in trade directly from the original creator. He thought back, considering that deal…it was exchanged for…oh, yes, a particularly interesting item…more valuable than he liked to admit. Picking up the receiver hanging from one side he stepped up close to the mouthpiece.

“Hello, Lost and Found, Limited, proprietor speaking. Oh, yes, thank you for returning my call so promptly. I have an item for delivery that needs your very special skills. Yes, yes, to my brother – standard hard case and extremely fragile. It must be transported by hand – your kind of transport specifically.” There was a moment of silence as he listened to the response, nodding.

“Yes, April, 1973. Lawrence, Kansas, Rainbow Motors.” A pause. “Address? I’m sure I don’t know. That’s what we pay you for. Delivery early in the month, before the 5th, please.” Again, there was a pause and a frown crossed his face.

“Yes, I am aware that such an exact temporal location is an additional expense, but it is of no concern. Funds to be transferred as usual, half when you pick up the package and half upon confirmation of delivery. Yes, within the hour.” His frown cleared and he nodded, a rueful smile crossing his face.

“Oh, I don’t really know – or care, but whatever the contents, it is very important to my brother’s work. He is in the middle of a delicate and complex experiment with one of his machines.” His eyes slid over to the open case sitting on his desk, six gentle pulses lighting the gloom.

“He says he needs one of these right away to give his project that little something _extra_.” A short laugh escaped at the distant reply and he said his goodbyes as he returned the earpiece gently to the hook on the side of the long wooden box. Tugging at his vest to straighten it, he turned to face the desk.

Hesitantly, he crossed to the open case and then paused to stroke one of the bottles gently. “Soon. I promise. Soon you will have a home. And a family to care for. All your own.” _Just…not in the typical way._ He smiled as he closed the case. Mr. Fitch admired his brother’s little projects. _I wonder what he has planned for the other five_.

Mr. Fitch removed his glasses, humming softly as he cleaned them with yet another scrap of silk. He considered his sibling as he worked. Fitch had always loved his pain-in-the-ass brother and the business they shared. _Connecting people, trading things_. Pausing in his task, he again considered how special they were, the two of them. _What would be our true worth in trade_? Silent, he pondered the idea for a moment. He shook his head, quietly chuckling at his own useless speculation. _Time to go home for the day._ He carefully tucked his glasses back onto his face and then opened the door that silently appeared on the back wall of his office. Humming again, he stepped out into an infinity of stars. Behind him, the stockroom packed itself up and moved on to their next destination.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am a total nerd and research geek, I had to come up with story-related reasons for each date I chose. And not just SPN canon-compliant reasons, real world reasons as well. See list below for evidence of my insanity. 
> 
> **January 25, 2004** [1.5 yrs before SPN 1.01]  
> Day after Dean's 25th Birthday
> 
>  **March 5, 1970**  
>  [Takes place before 1973 time travel in 4.03]  
> March 4th, 1970 - Kent State Shootings:  
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kent_State_shooting>
> 
>  **December 6, 1991**  
>  [Immediately prior to Events of SPN 3.08]  
> Dec 4th - Terry Anderson released after 6.5 years as hostage in Lebanon.  
> [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lebanon_hostage_crisis#1991 ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lebanon_hostage_crisis#1991%20)
> 
> **April 6, 2008** [5 mo before 4.01]  
>  April 4-5 Police Raid on Fundamentalist Church compound in Eldorado Texas [Child sexual abuse]  
> [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/YFZ_Ranch#April_2008_raid ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/YFZ_Ranch#April_2008_raid%20)
> 
> **August 3rd, 2007** [After 2.22 and before 3.01]  
>  Aug 1st, 2007 - Bridge collapse in Minnesota  
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I-35W_Mississippi_River_bridge>
> 
>  **November 14, 2005,** [Takes place between events in SPN 1.02 and 1.03]  
>  November 15, 2005 Unseasonably strong tornadoes plague the Midwest area (Alabama, Arkansas, Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Missouri and Tennessee)  
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mid-November_2005_tornado_outbreak>  
> [Original reference was Hurricane Rita based on episode air dates - hattip to ereynolds for pointing out Jessica's canon death date] 
> 
> **Epilogue:**  
>  Refers to events depicted in spn 4.03 during September, 1973.


End file.
